Chapter 28 #2
Hailey: Does he look at you like he’s already picking out wedding songs?
Me: You’re ridiculous.
Hailey: So only china patterns, got it.
I groan and set the phone down.
Jason raises a brow. “What’s up with good ol’ Hailey?”
“She’s being judgmental.”
“She’s probably being right.”
I glare. “Can we not psychoanalyze her texts over eggs?”
He pours more coffee into his mug. “Then stop calling it nothing.”
“What else would you like me to call it, Jason?” I ask, more tired than angry now. “Because I’ve done the whole ‘falling for someone who’s not mine’ thing before, and I’m not interested in reruns.”
His expression shifts—something sharp beneath the surface. “I never said I wasn’t yours.”
My head snaps and I glance at him because he . . . didn’t he? My hand stills, and I’m pretty sure I’ve forgotten how to breathe.
He says it like it’s simple. Like it’s obvious. Like the idea of him being mine isn’t something that could ruin me if I believed it and it turned out to be a lie.
“I’m not doing this,” I say, standing. “This isn’t where this goes.”
He stands, too. “Then where does it go, Scottie?”
I stare at him, heart thudding. My mouth opens, but nothing comes out.
Because I don’t know.
I don’t know where this goes. I just know I don’t want it to end.
“I don’t know where this goes,” I admit the words tasting foreign in my mouth. “I just know it wasn’t supposed to be here.”
Jason doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t soften. He stands there, tall and still, coffee forgotten, shirtless and impossible, watching me like he sees through the armor I’ve spent years building.
And I hate it.
I hate how easy he makes this look. Like staying is a reflex. Like intimacy isn’t dangerous. Like sex was the beginning instead of the beginning of the end.
“You think I planned any of this?” he asks finally, voice low, rough around the edges. “You think I sat around dreaming up the perfect time to fuck my best friend’s sister in the middle of my recovery?”
I wince. “Nice. Super romantic.”
He steps closer. “I didn’t plan it, Scottie. But I’m not going to lie and pretend I haven’t thought about it. It’s haunted me since Tokyo.”
My breath catches. I look away toward the window. Morning spills in, bright and unforgiving—the kind of light that reveals everything.
“I’m not looking for complicated,” I whisper.
Jason exhales. “This doesn’t have to be complicated, Ella. We’re two grown-ups who can communicate and make things simple, enjoyable, and, if possible, permanent.”
Not sure why my head snaps and my heart squeezes when he calls me Ella, but then the rest . . . permanent. Who does permanent these days? I don’t . . . I can’t.
There’s a beat. Then two. Long enough for the silence to settle over us like a weighted blanket I didn’t ask for, but it feels nice and not asphyxiating as I once assumed.
Jason leans against the counter like he’s got all the time in the world. Arms folded. Shirt rumpled. Bedhead cocky. His gaze pins me in place like I’m the subject of a very thorough, very unfair scientific study.
“You don’t have to decide anything right now.”
“I’m not deciding.” I lie without flinching.
He tilts his head like he’s indulging me. “You’re panicking.”
“No.” I lift my chin. “I’m assessing.”
“Uh-huh.” His mouth twists, not quite a smile. “Assessing how fast you can leave this place and pretend I never made you come so hard you forgot your middle name?”
“I didn’t forget it.”
“You moaned Tate like it was the only word you’ve ever known.”
I slap a hand to my temple, groaning. “You’re not supposed to know me this well.”
Jason shrugs, casual as sin. “I’ve known you since you were a bossy teenager yelling at Leif for stealing your fries.”
“They were my fries.”
His grin breaks through like a crack in the armor. “You think I haven’t spent years cataloging your tells?”
I don’t answer. I can’t. My throat’s doing that thing—tight and stupid and way too full of things I’m not ready to say.
So, I go for the deflection. “We agreed this wasn’t going to be anything.”
“It wasn’t,” he says quietly. “Until it became everything.”
And, fuck. That lands.
He watches me. No pressure, no push. Just standing there in my kitchen like he belongs. Like we’re something already, and I’m the one pretending we’re not.
“And what if I don’t want it to be nothing?” he asks, low and maddeningly sure.
My heart skips.
Then crashes.
Because that’s the problem, isn’t it?
If it’s not nothing, it could be something. And something has an expiration date. A timeline. A detonation.
I grab my coffee like it can shield me from the very real risk of feeling too much. “Then we need new rules.”
Jason’s brow arches. “New rules?”
“Boundaries. Structure. Emotional fire escapes. In case one of us gets caught in the burning building.”
He stares at me for a second. Then actually laughs. “Too late, Scottie.”
“Jason—”
“There’s feelings. There’s need. There’s me wanting more than a casual fuck and you pretending you don’t feel it too.”
My stomach flips—my skin hums. My heart does the stupid thing where it dares to hope.
And still, I reach for structure.
“Fine,” I say, holding my mug like a gavel. “Then we negotiate.”
His smile sharpens. “Rules with loopholes?”
“Guidelines with gray areas.”
“Terms and conditions?”
“Mostly conditions.”
His eyes darken with interest. “God, I fucking love when you try to make chaos sound reasonable.”
“And I hate that you make vulnerability look hot,” I murmur, almost like it’s a crime he keeps committing.
“Too bad,” he says, stepping in like gravity’s got nothing on him. “Because I’m not stopping. Not until you stop pretending this doesn’t mean something.”
He reaches out, brushing his knuckles lightly down my arm—soft, grounding, maddening.
“And I’m going for the hat trick,” he adds, voice low and rough in the best way.
My brow lifts. “A hat trick?”
“Three goals,” he says, holding up one finger. “I recover. Fully. No excuses.”
A second finger. “I get back on the team. Earn my spot.”
Then, the third. His hand wraps gently around mine.
“And I win your heart.”
And, damn it—he says it like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like it’s already his.